


Just Unwell

by Jemisard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, War (discussion of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-16
Updated: 2010-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:04:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemisard/pseuds/Jemisard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up in an Institute and is told nothing from his his meeting with Mike Stamford onwards really happened. But is that world real... or this new one, and his carer, Jimmy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Unwell

His dreams were tormented flashes of reality, of people with missing legs from land mines and missing faces from gunshots. He would almost wake, see Sherlock leaning over him, watching him dispassionately with those pale grey eyes of his, his face swimming and bulging unnaturally. he would speak, but the words and his mouth didn’t match up and then he’d plunge back into his nightmares, listening to Sherlock’s voice recite injuries and fatalities.

Waking up was an eternity more difficult than it had been the morning before this one.

John tried to open his eyes, but they felt like they were taped shut, unresponsive to his demands that he wanted them open. He knew he was awake, but his body didn’t seem to get the message, sluggish and heavy.

He felt like he was choking, tightly wrapped and coddled in bedclothes, but he couldn’t seem to fight his way free.

“John... relax,” a soft, lilting, Irish voice murmured. “It’s okay, you’re safe in your room, no enemy combatants. No serial killers.”

The voice sent a spark of fear through his chest. He tried to pull away, but cool hands brushed over his face, followed by a cloth and he hadn’t even realised he was overheating until that moment. Without his mind telling his body to act he was arching up into it slightly, wiping away the feeling of grime on his skin.

His eyes finally opened. His head felt like there was a heavy pressure behind it and there was a nauseating feeling of clawing, crowding memories, things he couldn’t quite remember but felt like they were terrible.

His vision was blurry and dull. He could see someone, pale, dark hair, wearing blue. “Sh’lock?”

“No, John. Sherlock isn’t real, remember?”

Not real? John knew he wasn’t deranged enough to make up his insane house mate and his atrocious habits. If Sherlock wasn’t real, who had he been living with for six months? He laughed at the idea. “Wh’re?”

“You’re very lucid today, John. Are you going to stay with me for a while?”

He knew that voice. “Mori-”

“John... Sherlock and Moriarty aren’t real. We’ve been through this. I’m Jimmy. I’m your carer, remember?”

Carer? Jimmy? He shook his head, but the cloying, smothering fog stayed.

“Head up... that’s it.” A hand cradled the back of his head, helping him lift it and a cup was placed to his lips, letting him sip at tepid water. He felt parched, like he hadn’t drunk in days.

He was gently lowered down again. “Are you still with me, John?”

“Yes,” he croaked.

“Who am I?”

“... Jimmy?” He blinked his eyes, but they remained stubbornly blurry. “Can’t... see.”

“Hang on.” The cloth came back, cleaning his eyes gently. “You got a bit rough yesterday. We let you sleep it off.”

He was ridiculously grateful for the gritty feeling being wiped away and he opened his eyes, looking up.

To see Moriarty.

He flinched, trying to pull back, but again he was stopped, his body comfortably and firmly held in place by bands.

“Shh, it’s okay, John,” Moriarty said softly. “It’s just me, just Jimmy.”

“Moriarty,” he whispered.

“No, John. Jimmy Holmes.” He gave a slightly tight smile. “Remember? I’m your nurse.”

Oh god, Moriarty had him. He looked around, taking in the pastel cream walls, the sterile, stainless steel cabinets. He pulled and looked down and realised he was strapped to a bed, big, padded restraints holding him down.

“John, you’re starting to panic. Slow breaths, you’re safe.”

“Where’s Sherlock,” he whispered. “What have you done to him?”

Jimmy frowned slightly. “John... there is no Sherlock. No Baker street. You’re here, at the institute.”

“No... that’s ridiculous.” He struggled again. “You won’t get away with this.” His voice caught on the dryness of his throat, making him cough.

“Away with what? Would you like some more water?” Jimmy moved to sit next to him again; John tried to pull away as he was so gently lifted again, head supported and cup held to his lips. He refused to drink. It had to be drugged.

Jimmy shrugged and set it down again. “Okay. It’s there if you want more.” His hands moved, very professionally folding down the blanket to his hips. John noted that someone had stripped off his shirt, but his scars were like he remembered.

“This is the best I’ve seen you since you came here. Can you tell me about yourself, John? Do you remember anything?”

John watched Moriarty, tight lipped and silent as Sherlock’s arch nemesis rinsed out the cloth and started to briskly and professionally clean off his grimy, overheat skin.

“John?” He looked up after a bit. “Are you still here?”

“You’re not fooling me,” he said firmly. “Not like that first time when you used poor Molly to get at Sherlock.”

Moriarty glanced up and then back to what he was doing. “You remember me from then?”

“Of course I do,” he snapped out.

“I thought... maybe you were going to come out that day. When you actually called me Jim, not Sherlock.”

“Why would I call you Sherlock? What have you done with Sherlock?!” He tried to pull free and Moriarty backed up, moving the bowl out of range.

“I don’t know why you chose Sherlock.” He shrugged, looking a little awkward. “The doctor said it was how you coped with it all. By calling me your flat mate, Sherlock.”

“That’s insane. You’re telling me that the last six months didn’t happen. No. That’s bullshit,” John said firmly.

“Six months now, is it?” Moriarty came closer with the bowl, setting it down again. “It was only five months last week.”

John’s nightmares flashed through his mind, making the room feel like it was rolling. “I feel sick.”

“That’s the sedation wearing off.” He carefully started undoing the straps on John’s arms and shoulders. “Please don’t hurt me again, but I don’t want you choking if you are sick.”

“Again?” He felt his stomach roll and settle as the weight was taken off it, the restraints taken off.

“Last fortnight was a rough one. You thought you were a suicide bomber and tried to use me as a hostage.” The water was offered again and he took it, noticing how badly his hands were shaking, even just lying on his side with no other strain in his body.

“Do you want help?”

“No.” He glared at Moriarty, who seemed to take it in stride, staying close and watching as John lifted the cup and slowly sipped.

There were easier ways to drug him. Like when he’d been restrained.

He set the cup aside after a few more sips, resting back down on his side and looking around him. The room was actually very familiar. The lay out was very similar to the living room of the apartment. The bed he lay on faced the windows in the wall, what was clearly a carer’s station occupied where Sherlock’s lounge would go and guarded the way out, the large door designed to keep him in.

“This... looks like the flat,” he murmured, more to himself.

“This _is_ the ‘flat’, John. There is no 221c Baker Street.”

“B. 221b Baker Street,” he stated, glaring at Moriarty.

“Sorry, I can never remember which one it is.” He went and sat down in his chair, leaning to write in his notebook.

“I suppose I’m not a doctor either,” he asked eventually.

“Of course you are,” Moriarty said softly. “You’re a very good doctor, exceptional even. You just had some troubles adjusting when you came back from Afghanistan.”

So Moriarty was going to let that go. He was an Afghanistan veteran, an army medic. And he knew he was Sherlock Holmes’ flat mate, at 221b Baker Street and their landlady was Mrs Hudson. He tried to sit up when blinding pain hit him through his right leg, making him cry out.

“Whoa, whoa, careful there.” Moriarty hurried over, pushing him to lie back. “That would have stiffened up while you were in restraints, be gentle with it.”

“There’s... nothing wrong with my leg,” he ground out.

“Aside from the fact you were shot in it,” Moriarty said with a small smile. “Come on, let it unknot.” His hands lingered near the site of the pain, rubbing the muscle which slowly started to relax.

“Stop that,” John protested. “Stop touching me, you monster.”

Moriarty didn’t stop, but he stayed gentle and attentive, gaze going sad. “You can call me all the names you want, John, but I’m still going to look after you. It’s my job and it’s what you deserve.”

That answer stunned John into docility for a moment and in that time Moriarty just kept massaging him, easing the kinks out of his muscles, letting his leg relax again.

Moriarty patted his leg and moved back. “You should be good now. Remember your cane though, in case it gives out on you. Do you want to have a shower?”

“Are you going to watch me?”

“I’ll be out here like I always am. Your electric shaver is in there if you want a shave.”

John sat himself up carefully, feeling over himself. He felt... mostly normal, really. “How long have I supposedly been here?”

“You _have_ been here eight weeks. Some times are better than others,” he admitted. “It’s nice to have a chance to talk to you like this, with you aware of your surroundings and not calling me Sherlock, or accusing me of putting heads in your fridge.”

“You know about the head in the fridge?”

He smiled. “John, I was sitting in that chair when you told me there was a head in the fridge. I asked you why it was there and you said you supposed it made sense because where else could you keep it so it wouldn’t rot?”

“No.” That wasn’t how that conversation went. “Sherlock put it there. He was... measuring coagulation of saliva.”

“But the temperature would skew the result, wouldn’t it? A real body wouldn’t be in a still, cold place, probably, undisturbed.”

He had never thought of that. This was starting to sound frighteningly... rational. “I’m not crazy,” he whispered.

“No, you’re not crazy.” Moriarty nodded encouragingly. “You’ve just been a bit unwell for a while. But I think... maybe you’re on your way to recovery at last. Now, you go have that shower, I’ll get you clean clothes for after and then we can go for a walk in the yard if you like.”

John didn’t reply. He slid off the bed - his leg hurt when he put weight on it still, forced him to limp - and went to the gestured to room. Bathroom where the kitchen door should be. Shower stall where the fridge should sit.

The door wouldn’t shut all the way. There was nothing in here he could hurt himself on though. Just a battery powered shaver, tooth brush, tooth paste and a bar of soap.

He stripped off the hospital issue pants and grabbed the bar of soap, pausing as he saw his reflection.

His hair was shorter. It was a small detail, and before Sherlock he might not have noticed it. But his hair was shorter, much like it had been during that Black Lotus incident. He rubbed it between his fingers, feeling the hair.

His shoulder looked well healed. His leg somewhat less so. The scar was angry looking, not as well healed, like it hadn’t had the months of recovery.

He touched it, not flinching at the tender feeling that numbed to nothing in the dead area of actual scar tissue.

His scar. Exactly right, just... not finished healing, almost.

He closed his eyes and looked away. This was insanity. It had to be a game, it had to be. He just didn’t know why Moriarty would bother with him when it was Sherlock he was after.

Sherlock would find him. He knew it. And this would all be over and he could go home.

He got into the shower and started to wash, refusing to give in to the bubble of emotions that wanted to burst.

*~*~*

He had ignored Moriarty when he got out, clean washed and shaven and dressed in clean hospital clothes. Moriarty had given him his cane – it had his initials scratched in the side, the dents from his fingers clutching it – and then escorted him out and into a nice big yard.

It was quiet. Clearly a private facility of some kind. The garden was pretty and fenced in with large, white washed walls.

“How can I afford to be here?”

Moriarty was quiet for a moment. “Sponsorship. And we have some public spaces, for people who need the specialised care we provide. We deal with people in your situation, traumatic breakdowns from reality.”

“Psychotic snaps,” John said softly.

“I try not to use that word. People take it badly. But of course, you’re a doctor. You know a lot more than the average patient coming in here.” He looked up at the sky. “It’s nice to have you with us, even if it’s just for a few hours. I hope this will herald more lucid periods for you.”

John leaned on his cane, looking about. “I don’t believe you, you know. About any of this.”

“That’s okay,” Moriarty agreed. “You’re being calm, not violent. You’re aware of who I am. That’s a huge step towards recovery, you should be proud of yourself for coming so far.”

“Stop it, Moriarty.”

“Jimmy,” he said quietly and firmly. “My name’s Jimmy.”

“Moriarty,” John repeated.

“All right. What about Jim?”

He wanted to growl. “Fine. _Jim_.”

Jim smiled warmly. “Thank you, John. Or would you prefer Doctor Watson, now you’re feeling better?”

He didn’t want Moriarty calling him John. “Just Watson.”

“Okay, Watson, then.” They walked in silence for a bit longer.

“When will you let me go?”

“You can leave when you’re established to not be a threat to yourself or others. You need to be lucid and aware and not have slips back. We don’t want to send you out just to have you... do the same thing you did last time.”

“Last time?” He had no idea what Moriarty was talking about.

“Repression of traumatic events is fairly common and you did take a lot of vicodin.”

“Vicodin?”

“You were prescribed it for your leg. You... overdosed. After you met with an old college friend, you just... couldn’t take civilian life with your injury, I guess.” He shrugged and gave John a sad smile. “Only you really know why you did it. But we brought you here when you started talking to ‘Mike’ about getting a flat with someone he knew. You came here, I took over your care. And you started to call me Sherlock sometimes. It’s an interesting name, I hadn’t heard it before.”

“This is ridiculous, you realise. I met Sherlock at St. Bart’s. My mind isn’t clever enough _or_ twisted enough to dream up Sherlock Holmes.” He looked at a man chasing butterflies on hands and knees, barking happily.

“You’re very clever, John. Very clever. I guess... you needed to feel there was a reason why the person with you treated you with cold professionalism.”

“Sherlock’s not cold,” he argued. “Just a bit... odd. Detached. But not cold.”

“You imagined up a flat mate who keeps heads in the fridge.”

John’s leg was hurting.

Moriarty headed for a bench immediately, apparently catching the heaviness in his step. “I think it was you trying to normalise the things you saw in the war. Seeing the things you saw... dismembered parts, horrific deaths, you tried to make it more normal by having this fantasy where there’s body parts in the house, you go to a morgue a lot, deal with dead bodies, in a much more sanitised way. Gradual acceptance of the deaths you witnessed to bombs and insurgents.”

John sat down heavily. It sounded so horribly... plausible. Didn’t Sherlock always say to him that when the impossible had been eliminated, that which remained, no matter how implausible, had to be the truth?

“I’m sorry if this is a bit much for you, Jo- Watson.” Moriarty sat down next to him, taking John’s hand and uncurling the white knuckled fist, pressing on his palm.

There was a stabbing feeling, like a deep bruise, and sudden the rising dread in John ease back again. He gave Moriarty a shocked look.

He smiled back. “Accupressure. It helps with anxiety.”

“I- thanks,” he said softly.

“You’re welcome,” Jimmy replied. “Do you want to stay out here or head back inside?”

“Stay here.” In the sun. Where he could try and think and sort out his head.

“Okay.” Jimmy put his hand back onto his knee and settled in quietly.

*~*~*

John spent the rest of the day in contemplative silence. He was provided with food that he ate in a communal space with the other eleven residents of this section. He didn’t talk to them, they didn’t talk to him. He was sort of used to life like that.

It was strange though, eating by himself. No piercing gaze watching him, no trying to tempt Sherlock into eating something.

He kept waiting for Moriarty to show his hand, to do something to drive him insane but nothing came. Even the medication he was given wasn’t forced down him, it was just a simple stare off until John decided not playing wasn’t going to help and he took it.

It didn’t make him sick. It just made him feel a bit calmer, a bit more focused on the here and now.

That night, Moriarty double checked him just before curfew to make sure he was settled in bed with some books in case he got bored, reminded him where the button was to call for help if he needed tablets for the pain or nightmares, then left, locking the door behind him.

He had nightmares again. Strange, distorted dreams where Sherlock dispassionately listed the damage done to John’s shoulder and leg and psyche and he would half wake to find the ghost like figure almost looming over him before he would slip back into dreams about the war.

There was a soft voice that he didn’t _hear_ but he knew was there, telling him to relax, it was over now, he was safe. He wanted to say it was Sherlock’s voice but Sherlock never said such things.

When he woke up properly it was morning and Jimmy was reading the paper.

“Morning,” he said cheerfully.

“Morning,” John murmured. “Still here.”

“Still here,” Jimmy agreed. “How’s the leg?”

He moved and winced, clutching it. “Been better.”

Jimmy folded his paper and got up, coming over. “Come on, let me have a look, see if we can work it out.” He tugged down the blankets, hands setting to work.

“Do you play the violin,” John asked, having a thought.

“No, I don’t play any instruments. But I sometimes bring my music in here when you’re having bad nights. You seemed to like the orchestral pieces.”

“This isn’t real. You’ve taken me for some reason.” But he groaned as fingers skillfully dug into the pain and undid the knots.

“Mm-hm. Because I’m an evil master mind, right?” Jim smiled warmly and patted his leg. “Go and have a shower, you’ve got an appointment with your doctor this morning.”

“My doctor?”

He nodded, raising an eyebrow. “Gregory Lestrade. Remember?”

“Lestrade... DI Lestrade?”

“ _Doctor_ Lestrade,” Jim corrected. “Tablets and shower.” He offered tablets that looked exactly like last night’s, only a smaller dose.

John took them and stared at them in his hand.

“Jo- Watson?”

He looked up, blinking. “Yes?”

“Tablets and shower. Then breakfast and seeing Lestrade.”

Horrifically, he found himself nodding and taking the tablets before getting up to go shower.

*~*~*

“You’re not calling me ‘DI’ today, John.”

Lestrade was pretty much as John remembered. Different somehow, but much the same. Same mannerisms, same clear voice, same silvered hair and worn face. Still towering over John.

“No, I’m not.” He took a seat gratefully, rubbing at his leg. “Something’s not right about you... Are you really Lestrade?”

The man didn’t roll his eyes but he did nod with very carefully schooled patience. “Yes, John. I’m Lestrade.”

“I remember you looking...” He waved a hand. “Different.”

“I’m glad you remember me at all. Last week you called me Anderson and told me I was an idiot. A fortnight before that I was... some other DI.” He flicked through his notes. “Dimmock.”

That... sounded insane. But everyone here was telling him he _was_ insane, so maybe it made perfect sense.

“How do you feel? Jimmy says you’re recovering lucidity well.”

“Jim Moriarty is-”

“We’ve been over this, John. There is no Jim Moriarty. Just poor Jimmy who’s been very good about you calling him an arch nemesis.” Lestrade sounded tolerant but tired, like they went over this a lot.

“Have we had this conversation before?”

“Most therapy sessions. Sometimes you even remember it for a few days.” He leaned back. “Is Sherlock with us today?”

John looked around, half expecting to see Sherlock lurking somewhere. “No... of course not.”

“Really? This is interesting.” He leaned forwards. “When did you last see him?”

“I...” He saw him last night, he was sure of it, a ghost white figure leaning over his bed. “Last... no. Not last night.”

“Very, very good,” Lestrade wrote some notes down. John read them from where he was. _Improvement to cognition, awareness of reality reasserting._

“Jim said his name is Holmes.”

“Yes, it is. Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty. Both your carer, but sometimes you’re less happy with his decisions about your care. Do you remember grabbing him by the throat two weeks ago?”

He shook his head, but then paused and nodded. “I... at the pool.”

“Outside one night, yes. You were showing improvement, then you got out after dinner, you were yelling about someone being blown up. Tell me about the explosions you lived through, John, in the war.”

“I saw a lot of people die,” he said curtly.

“You saw a lot of dismembered bodies in Afghanistan. A lot of people you tried to help and couldn’t after bombing attacks.”

He could see it as Lestrade spoke, the blinding light, the blistering heat against his skin, the stench of blood and charred human flesh. He nodded slowly, feeling sick.

“Do you need some water, John?”

He nodded, eyes closed.

“Open your eyes, look at the room. You’re not there.” A cup of water was pressed into his hand; he looked up to see a flash of Sherlock’s face that made him jump and flinch away, when he looked back, it was just Lestrade watching him with concern.

“Are you okay, John?”

“Yeah.” He gulped the water, taking a deep breath. “I’m okay.”

“Do you want to continue?”

He looked at the cup and nodded slowly.

If he was as insane as he was starting to suspect... He was more than ready to start getting better.

*~*~*

Slowly, John started to settle into something like a routine. He had therapy once a day, with Lestrade after breakfast and in the afternoons, Jimmy would escort him outside and they’d walk if John was having a good day with his leg or sometimes Jimmy would push him in a wheelchair and they’d play chess or watch the other inmates.

Mrs Husdon turned out to be Matron Husdon, the night shift. She came one night when he woke up screaming from his nightmares and convinced he could still hear Sherlock’s voice screaming his name, echoing around the room but the noise faded back when a small, fierce, older woman with a loud voice came charging in.

She didn’t have herbal supplements, but she did give him medication to get him back to sleep and cups of tea when he asked her softly not to turn out the lights and plunge him back into his dreams.

He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Jimmy to start laughing and reveal how this was his master plan all along to lure Sherlock into doing something, but day after day, nothing of the sort happened.

Jimmy was sweet, funny and very, very clever. Not clever like Sherlock or Moriarty, but he knew a lot about his field, a lot about chess and gardening and a surprising amount about clothing. John knew that he was just a job to Jimmy, but Jimmy was all the company he really had. The other inmates were fairly far gone and he wondered if that had been him a few weeks ago.

In three weeks he was showing marked improvement. He only had one day of confusion and that had been quietly spent in his room reading a medical journal while Jimmy kept watch on him and played classical music.

He didn’t mention the once or twice in the song he was sure he heard Sherlock’s deliberate screeching on the violin, just shivered and was reassured when Jimmy just smiled slightly at him and went back to his paper.

At the end of three weeks, he had to admit he couldn’t entirely describe Sherlock anymore. In his dreams, he seemed to slightly change every time he saw him, familiar, clearly Sherlock, but mutable in the way a memory shouldn’t be.

Pale skin, dark curls and a brilliant, pale piercing eyes was hardly a clear cut description of a man he had lived with for six months. But it was all John could manage. He could describe Lestrade, Mrs Husdon, even the dark skinned, pretty pharmacist who wasn’t actually called Donovan at all but one of her shirts had a patch that read “Donny’s Vans” which was some reference to shoes that he didn’t understand.

Sometimes, Jimmy would laugh, and it would remind him of Sherlock’s laugh. Or how he imagined Sherlock had laughed. Or he’d wink and it was that awkward, playful gesture he associated with Sherlock trying to be normal.

Harry wasn’t allowed to visit, but John doubted she would if she could. Harry wasn’t the type to come and visit him if he’d just gone crazy and hadn’t had the decency to actually have something physically wrong with him.

Maybe it was unfair, but Harry had barely been there since came back. She’d been distant enough that John’s psyche had invented a house mate to fill the void that should have been filled by family. He’d worked that one out on his own.

He and Jimmy were out in the garden, watching the pond and the koi swimming in it. More and more, John was noticing the similarities between Jimmy and Sherlock. Jimmy was a lot more personable... and that was a little scary.

John hadn’t been close to anyone in a long time. Sherlock had been wonderfully... different like that. Distant and involved at once. Jimmy was distant, but only in a professional sense.

And John knew what was happening. Patients often latched onto doctors and carers. But it still wasn’t easy.

“Are you all right, John?”

He nodded, tearing up the bread into smaller pieces, scattering them over the pond. “Just... thinking. My life has changed so much in three weeks. I still... have flashes. Dreams. But I’m a lot more aware.”

“You are. Lestrade is talking about moving you to assisted living soon, so we can monitor you, but you don’t really need us anymore. You’re doing so well.”

“I guess I won’t see you anymore after that. It will be-”

Jimmy waited for him to find the word he wanted.

“Strange. You’re the only friend I have since I came back from Afghanistan and I guess we’re not really friends. You’re my carer and I’m... recovering from a psychotic snap.” He leaned his hands on his cane.

“You’ll make other friends, John.”

In theory, he would. But he wasn’t good at it. “Yeah.”

“And then you’ll get back out into life and this will just be a bad memory.”

“Jimmy?” He looked at him and out again. “When I’m out... better, could we catch up? As friends, not just a mad man and his nurse?”

Jimmy smiled. “I reckon we can discuss that once you’re better. If you want to still do it.”

John smiled slightly with a shy glance sideways. “That sounds nice.”

“You about ready to head inside again?”

“Can we stay out a bit longer,” he asked softly.

“Sure, if you’d like.”

He nodded and settled back in the bench, watching the fish. And maybe, just a little bit, watching Jimmy.

*~*~*

He went to bed with his dose of melatonin to help him sleep and his anxiety and psychosis pills to keep him calm during the night and during his sleep.

When he woke up to screaming and yelling, he logically concluded he had gone insane again and had another total, psychotic break. It was like the war, people screaming to get down, stay down, gun shots and the hiss of flares.

He scrambled off the bed, shocked at how well his leg responded once the adrenaline was going. He felt sluggish still, heavy, but he forced himself upright, grabbing his walking stick and hefting it up. He might be going mad again.

Or there might be armed men storming the institute.

Which sounded just as crazy, so either way he guessed he was insane.

A loud clunk had him spinning around, clutching the walking stick as the door was unlocked and it swung open. Bright beams of light played over the room, over him, blinding him and forcing him to look away.

“Jimmy,” he barely whispered.

“Sir, we’ve got him!”

Peering against the torches, John fought to make out who was in the doorway. His eyes widened as he saw Jimmy, face pale and arms held pinned behind him, blood across the side of his face where he must’ve been hit with the butt of a rifle. “What did you do,” he gasped, looking around the bright light.

A dark figure almost seemed to flow from Jimmy and solidify, pushing past him. “Get those torches out of his face, you idiots, you’re blinding him.”

No.

“No.”

Sherlock.

“John.” Sherlock came sweeping up to him, setting down an electric lantern and turning it up to flood the room with light. “They cut the power to disable the security system.” Long fingered hands stroked his face. “Did he hurt you?”

He looked past Sherlock to Jimmy... no, to Jim. Jim Moriarty.

“John,” he said softly. The blood slipped further down his face. “Don’t do this now. You’re so close to being released.”

“John, don’t listen to him.” His face was tipped up, forced to look at Sherlock. “We’ve been looking. For a month, we’ve been trying to hunt you down.”

“I-” He knew those pale, piercing eyes. But the rest of his face was almost unfamiliar. “This isn’t real.”

“No. He’s been drugging you, a similar mix to that used by the military to brainwash enemy agents into compliance, interrogation drugs. They make you pliable to suggestion. Whatever he’s been telling you, it’s lies, John.”

“I’ve been seeing you... at night.”

“John! Come on, feel me touching your face,” he heard Jimmy saying. “John, please, don’t do this now. There is no Sherlock. No Moriarty, just you and me.”

“Get him out of here,” Sherlock snapped. “Before he manages to do any more damage. John, listen to me, this room is designed to keep you here, thinking you’re insane, you think they don’t have cameras, screens, speakers to make you think you’re crazy?”

John looked between them, Jim... Jimmy... Moriarty, whoever he was, and Sherlock. Jimmy who had nursed him, been there... who was Moriarty, who strapped him into a bomb. Sherlock, who was taking off his coat and wrapping it around him.

“John, stop fighting me, please, just relax, it’s a hallucination, listen to me, believe me, JOHN!

His name echoed down the hallway as Sherlock’s arms tightened on him. Warm and snugly held, just like the restraints.

“Sherlock?” He looked up.

Sherlock gave him a slightly shaky smile. “It’s okay now. I won’t let him get near you again.”

John paused. He made his choice of which of them to believe.

“Can I go home? To Baker street?”

“Of course,” Sherlock murmured.

And John prayed he’d made the right decision of what was reality.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html?thread=3073238#t3073238


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